


Iwa-chan: A Study in Five Senses

by ninimusic



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Character Study, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-04 23:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15157466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninimusic/pseuds/ninimusic
Summary: In which Oikawa is smitten and doesn’t quite know the difference between a compliment and an insult.





	Iwa-chan: A Study in Five Senses

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a prose poem, short and sweet, then words happened.
> 
> Kudos and comments are love and mean the world!

  1. _Sight_



Every morning, just like today, the first thing Oikawa does after opening his eyes is to smile.

How could he not, when Iwaizumi Hajime is so objectively handsome? His grandmother says that he is a _fine young man_ , with a wink and all. With his broad shoulders, attractive features and welcoming smile, he makes all the old ladies swoon.

Tooru cannot blame them.

To him, though, Iwa-chan is so much more than that. So much more than looks, than a face and a body, so much more than what everyone else can see. Hajime’s beauty lies in all his less-than-perfect. Quite frankly, perfection is boring and Oikawa would rather choose an adventure instead.

And believe him, Iwa-chan is quite a sight in the morning.

His lover can be very ugly in the early hours of the day, all rumpled, hair a mess, mouth stretching in a graceless yawn, scratching his stomach like the caveman he can be. That is what makes Tooru smile, what makes him laugh with adoration.

Don’t get him wrong; he likes the Iwa-chan that’s all put together, the one that goes to dinner with Tooru’s grandmother in his best suit, making her blush with a kiss on the cheek and thoughtful flattery.

It gets kind of boring after a while, though.

There is just something special about the Iwa-chan that’s just out of bed. How real he is, how raw, how _his_.

Tooru likes his spiky hair that goes up in every direction, begging for shampoo. It’s so very not smooth and even less silky, but a bit on the rough side instead, loyal to the personality of its bearer; loyal also to the Japanese blood running in his veins, centuries of men with hair like the night.

He likes his skin, even if it’s a little damp from spending the night cuddling under the covers. He likes his skin that’s a little darker than the beauty standards, because all he sees is tan and it means memories. Iwa-chan’s skin is made of memories of days spent in the sun; crawling on the ground like on a spy mission, muddy knees, looking for the most unique bug of them all; lazing in the backyard like teenage girls sharing secrets; hitting volleyballs like their lives depended on it.

And it felt like it did.

He likes his eyes that feel like they can see right through him. How could there ever be secrets between them with eyes like that; eyes that look like the earth but are really the forest, eyes that are kind and patient, telling only the truth except for their colour. After all, they need to know just what a lie looks like to be able to recognize one.

_Yes grandma_ , he thinks fondly, _he’s a fine young man, indeed_.

 

  1. _Smell_



Oikawa makes himself comfortable again under the covers, his head in the curve of his still sleeping partner’s neck, and takes a deep breath.

Honestly, Iwa-chan doesn’t ever smell really good. It’s always either morning breath, sweat or that supposedly manly body wash — deodorant, aftershave or whatever — that makes him smell like Oikawa’s dad. But Tooru never complains, even if he does all the time, because all of this makes Iwa-chan smell like home.

He smells like waking up next to each other, like right now, the light softly coming through the blinds, then kissing before even saying hello, before brushing your teeth, because Tooru is so very in love and that’s fine as long as he breathes through his mouth.

And maybe Iwa-chan smells like a locker room, but he also smells like winning, match after match, and losing sometimes, but it’s okay when every perfect spike feels like a win on its own, hugging in the middle of the court with shared tears of sorrow or happiness, both so sweaty and euphoric that it doesn’t seem too inappropriate to share a shower while the whole team is still around.

And Tooru won’t try to make him stop washing himself with the same stuff his father uses — he gave up, really — because it’s kind of comforting in its own way. Iwa-chan smells like holding onto his dad for dear life, and crying while soothing words are being whispered in his hair and a splinter is being removed from his hand.

And it doesn’t bother him that the memory is not a happy one and that his father didn’t smell really good either, because superheroes do not smell like roses. They smell like hard work, sweat and determination, and probably also like morning breath, because brushing your teeth can wait when you’ve got the whole world to save, little boys to love and splinters to remove.

His dad was always his superhero, until one day he grew up and, suddenly, he wasn’t anymore. Instead, he was only human, a man with fears, and flaws, and weaknesses. A man Tooru will always admire no matter what.

Now, his dad is no longer his home. Now, home is Iwa-chan, his new superhero even if he’s old enough to know he’s not.

There’s nothing quite like home, like Iwa-chan, Hajime, his favorite smell, even if sometimes he has to pinch his nose a bit to fully enjoy it.

If he smelled like roses, he wouldn’t be Iwa-chan anymore.

  1. _Hearing_



Oikawa became addicted to one Iwaizumi Hajime the first time he heard him laugh.

It was only an addiction, not love yet, because love was a bit too strong of a word for a toddler.

He just knew that he needed more of that boy, of that playful laugh, light and airy, wind chimes echoing in the backyard next to his own as Hajime’s mother chased the boy to get him inside for dinner or for a bath. He was always so proud to be the cause of this laugh, not matter how he got it, whether it be from a clever joke or a volleyball hitting his face.

He missed it greatly when puberty stole it from him. He missed the soprano, the carillon. He couldn’t recognize it from miles away anymore and it made him feel lost in the crowd.

How dared his Iwa-chan grow up? How dared he abandon the boy he was, or used to be, the one with scraped knees who wanted to stay outside until the sunset? How dared he, when Tooru wasn’t ready?

One day, Tooru went to school only to find a new Hajime in front of him, one who liked to study in the library, but also challenge everyone at arm wrestling.

One who made friends who were not him.

But at least spiking Tooru’s tosses still seemed like his favorite thing to do.

And when he was finally done mourning, he became addicted to this new version of Iwa-chan, still a bit too young for love yet.

But he hated the new laugh, loathed it with all of his being, that stupid dying duck, scratchy and just plain horrible, especially when it was caused by giggling girls twirling their hair, or that boy from the soccer team, the one who would let his eyes linger on Iwa-chan’s lips and then send a smirk in Tooru’s direction.

Iwa-chan wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

His grandmother would say it was endearing and Oikawa, for the life of him, couldn’t understand how she had reached that conclusion. He couldn’t, until one day it was gone as quickly as it came, only a memory never to be mentioned again— unless he’d want Hajime’s cheeks to become a pretty pink and make him stutter a half-hearted insult.

Then, he understood.

Hajime was always one step in front of him. While Tooru was being petty and immature, Hajime was already a man in the making, serious and strong when he needed to be. When Tooru finally caught up, Iwa-chan was there waiting for him.

This time, he didn’t miss the old Iwa-chan, because he was finally ready to grow up, ready to fall in love now that he knew just what it meant. The new laugh was low and deep and _sexy_ , and Oikawa wasn’t the only one to notice it, but he was the only one to know just what it sounded like right against his ear, followed by a moan in the darkness of the night.

This laugh that morphed through the years, that made him feel pride and jealousy, that made him fall apart, has always been one and the same, he now realises. Always the same rhythm, the same crooked smile, the same twinkle in his eyes; Iwa-chan has never changed, he was just discovering who he was and teaching Tooru to do the same.

All this time he had been fooled, mourning something that was never truly gone. He just never knew where to look, senses overwhelmed by everything his best friend had to offer.

But now he knows better, and if Iwa-chan is to ever lose his voice, then he’ll listen to the vibrations of his chest, the same as always, and fall in love with him all over again.

 

  1. _Touch_



Oikawa readjusts himself in a more comfortable position that allows him to put a bit less of his body on top of Iwaizumi’s.

The man is without a doubt the worst pillow known to mankind — not that Tooru has tried many other human pillows before, but that’s just a detail.

Every time he whines about it, Iwa-chan says he’s just being dramatic. Tooru always retorts that one’s got the right to complain when they have pointy bones digging into their ribs.

There is no hiding that Iwa-chan is not plump and round, soft and delicate and, well, basically anything that makes for a good pillow.

It’s actually a good thing. Tooru likes his firm and sharp Iwa-chan.

It was established earlier that Tooru likes adventures and, lucky him, Iwa-chan’s body is quite the journey.

He is an endless landscape of muscles and bones, hard edges and calloused corners. As far as his eyes can see, there are crevices and ridges to investigate, but his eyes don’t see, his eyes are closed, so he’ll have to rely on touch alone, which is more than enough, to map out the expanse offered to him.

Why would he even need a pillow when he is ever moving, exploring hidden skin, discovering known territory like it’s the first time all over again with fingers and lips, nails and teeth, tongue and the tip of his nose.

And when finally they rest, after he reached the heavens in the hands of his own god, moans swallowed in a tender kiss, velvety compared to the stubble at his fingertips, he will gladly become the pillow instead.

Not like Tooru, all tall and athletic, is in any way more pillow material, but his lover has never been one to complain.

 

  1. _Taste_



Oikawa gently presses his lips to Iwaizumi’s forehead in the hopes of bringing him back from dreamland. He trails them down his nose and stops at his mouth, hovering over there, a ghost of a touch, waiting for permission, like he always does.

The desire to kiss Hajime was born in his heart a long time ago. He was a young boy back then, naïve, fascinated, addicted. They were both still round-cheeked, his friend a patchwork of Band-Aids in the most surprising places; laugh still ringing high like bells.

It was only fitting, since it was Christmas when Tooru first got the idea. Eyeing the mistletoe, licking milk bread crumbs from his lips, he had wondered if Iwa-chan would taste just as good.

The thought had not left him for days, weeks even, before he came to a conclusion. Iwa-chan most probably tasted like bubble gum, since he was almost always chewing one. Not as good as milk bread, but it would have to do.

Therefore, he got himself some bubble gum flavored lip balm and, every day, he was able to get a taste of a kiss that might never happen. When that soccer kid appeared in the picture years later, a hand on Hajime’s arm, gauging Tooru’s reaction from the corner of his eye, he would lick his lips and have that small victory for himself.

Every year, at Christmas, he would subtly —or not so much — get Iwa-chan under the mistletoe. He would look from left to right, over his shoulder and above Hajime’s head, making sure no one was watching, then swiftly kiss his cheek before fleeing the scene the crime, face as red as the Santa’s hat on top of his head.

A minty taste always lingered on his tongue from the candy canes, but a quick lick of his lips had never failed to bring the bubble gum back.

Every year, he would strategically place his lips closer and closer to Hajime’s until, finally, they were old enough to understand just what it meant and, for the first time, permission was granted.

What a surprise when he was met with mint once again, not from candy canes this time, but from Iwa-chan’s bubble gum that was, as faith would have it, mint flavored. He wanted to laugh at himself, but he felt warm and safe, so he just smiled instead. He smiled, like he still does for every kiss.

In hindsight, it seems only logical that Iwa-chan would taste just like he smells. He couldn’t know that at the time, though, since Hajime wasn’t quite his home yet. But he did taste like home. He tasted like Christmas, family gatherings, laughs and gifts. He tasted like mint, like candy canes, like sneaky kisses as if he was his dirty little secret.

But he wouldn’t stay a secret for long, because permission was granted and Tooru was nothing if not a great gossip,  and so was grandma, watching them fondly like she had always been, apparently able to keep her lips sealed if it was for her grandson’s sake.

 

* * *

 

An eye opens and a warm breath tickles his face. Permission is granted and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss the man he loves, smiling, like he does every morning.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” he mumbles against the other’s lips.

“Have you been awake long?” The voice is raspy and little too close. He turns his head to get a bit of fresh air.

“A while. I was just thinking about how much I love you.”

_You, and how that pillow squishing your face doesn’t suit you at all. You, and how that new aftershave you got smells even more like my dad’s. You, and how you used to laugh like you were strangling a duck, but in an endearing way, somehow. You, and how I’m lucky if I don’t bruise because of your elbow. You, and how I got the wrong flavor of lip balm, just so I could win over a guy you never knew had a crush on you._ It makes him giggle.

Hajime raises an eyebrow at the sound. “Somehow, I feel like there’s a bit more to it.”

Tooru wonders if it’s possible for him to love this man even more.

“But I love you, too.”

Yes. Yes, it most certainly is.


End file.
